Not to be contrary, but I’ve been thinking about opposites, more opposites, and a few differences.

There is something so funny and childlike to the notion that everything has an opposite.
And then there’s the fact that when you fill a book with said opposites, it’s really about connections.
How beautifully twisted is that??

In writing this lovely little book, Richard Wilbur went from being "an esteemed poet of humor and wisdom" to "an esteemed poet of humor and wisdom I’d really like to have dinner with."
Or rather, "… I’d really like to have numerous dinners with."

Seriously.
I want someone with this kind of whimsy in the bunker with me if it comes to that.

Run out and get this little morsel if you don’t already have it.
And in the meantime, a taste or two:

#22

Yesterday morning I packed my bags and my bronchial wheeze and headed off on a school visit.
I was sort of dreading it.
I’d been sick for more than a week, my voice was weak and sore, and I was just plain knackered.

But by noon I’d been infused with funny, curious, wide-eyed kid energy and darned if I wasn’t feeling a bit better.

Here’s my favorite line of the day:

We had your book at our house, but we sold it.

I said I understood. That being a 2nd grader, she probably needed more room on her shelves for chapter books.
I laughed.
The teachers, however, looked stricken.

Here are my favorite pocket metaphors of the day:

A hive is a pocket for a bee.
A nose is a pocket for mucus.
A book is a pocket for pages.

The teachers looked stricken again over the mucus.
But then a child sneezed, as if to assert the truth of it.

And with my own viral scourge, who was I to argue?

Plus, isn’t it refreshing sometimes to be with folk who just say it like it is?

This past month, I was one of the lucky folk who got to read and judge books for the Cybils.
I sat on the poetry panel with a bunch of seriously smart and thoughtful folk, and it was quite the treat.
So good, in fact, that I thought ya’ll might want a little inside scoop on the process.

(I promise, I’ll be restrained with the details.
I don’t want to have to enter the witness protection program.)

So.
First.
Under the guiding light of our fearless leader, Ms. Kelly Fineman, our team convened by way of a Yahoo Group.

And then we lay back on our chaise lounges to await delivery of the five finalists.
The publishers, we were sure, were all scurrying to get the books to us by overnight post.

Um.
Not.

Might as well blame it on the economy, which is responsible for everything from drought to marital discord these days.

We were told to beg, borrow or steal buy the books.
Tout de suite.

Panic.
Petulance.
Pulling out of hair.

One panelist lives so far north that it was clear he wouldn’t get his hands on the books at all, unless Santa stepped in.
Which he didn’t.

But we all did our honest best and, before long, the email blizzard began.

First, we each ranked our books in descending order.

Some of us assigned a #1 to the book that others rated #5.
And vice versa.

Oi.

But here’s where it got really interesting.

We were comparing, after all, an anthology about war; a co-written he said, she said collection for young adults;  a picture book for the very young; a re-telling of myths across cultures; and a collection of poems interspersed with prose.

Apples and oranges, to say the least.

Plus, all the books were strong enough to be seriously humbling.

Ah, but we were undaunted.

We discussed the merits and limitations of the various sub-genres.
We debated the meaning of "kid appeal".
We weighed in on the art.
We shared our deepest thoughts on brussel sprouts.

Really.
We did.

Because one of the great things about collaborating on a project like this is the immediate intimacy, borne out of a shared passion and responsibility. In the absence of an actual salon with a round table, there is nothing like some quick literary repartee via a listserve. It was, dare I say it, a pleasure.

And, because we all know how to employ our stick-to-itiveness when we need to, we also reached a really satisfying consensus in end. We chose Honeybee, by Naomi Shihab Nye, for its lyrical elegance, its range from the personal to the political, its experimentation in terms of shape and form. I recommend giving it a read, and the other finalists, too.

And I also recommend connecting with wise and witty people over coffee, wine or email to discuss the things that matter to you, be they books or brussel sprouts. Do this as frequently as possible and you will feel as if you’ve won an award.
Unsung, maybe, but quite sweet.

Monday nights, my husband and older daughter go off to orchestra, leaving Small One and I on our own at book time. We can’t read whatever our family read-aloud is (currently The Penderwicks on Gardam Street) because the others would be left in the lurch, so we have to have our own special Monday book.

A number of weeks ago, we started reading the Newbery Honored The Underneath, by Kathi Appelt.

It’s an interesting thing, reading a book in little bits just once a week.
There are, I suspect, many stories that wouldn’t hold up to the challenge.

The Underneath, though, is episodic and has bite-sized chapters and while we are hungry for it each Monday, we’re not left hanging uncomfortably in the middle of a straight-forward, chronologically-arranged narrative.

Instead, we read the chapters like we read poems.
One at a time and then, greedily, a few more before bed.
We savor them.

And really, they are poems.
Perfectly put together little prose poems, layered and sensual.
Absolutely song-like when read aloud.

There is some very heavy stuff.
Sad and mean.
But the humanity (funny word to use when so many of the characters aren’t  human) is palpable
and the love, raw and right there at the surface.
In the end, I think we both just feel like we’ve spent time sitting with beauty when we read this book.
Mondays have taken on a special shine.

So, today, little bits of poetry from The Underneath:

"… Ranger had not realized how much he needed this sweet, friendly sound. How much he needed someone to settle in next to him. He didn’t know that he needed to not be so solitary until at last he wasn’t. So many needs in one old dog."

"With their roots exposed to the very innards of the Earth, where they can feel all its tremors and movements, trees, with their branches skimming the sky, branches that serve as antennae, can tell when something is awry."

If you haven’t yet, give it a read.
And take your time.
Really.

Maybe all the creative folk in your life have already sent you this link but if not, I urge you to watch.
And, y’know, if you have already seen it, watch it again.
It’s a beautiful thing…

Fear begone.
That’s my mantra of the day.

Sit. Write. Fear begone.

You’ll note that my supposedly regular Marathon Mondays petered out recently.

Big surprise.

I cannot seem to keep up any particular practice on this blog.  
(I also find it difficult to follow the arrows in parking lots.)

Still, the ill-fated series deserves, at least, a wrap up.
And this is that:

A marathon is a long, hard slog.
Not 26.2 miles but actually four months and hundreds of miles.
Many in the dark, many alone, some with sore feet and a head cold.
Others, bright, crisp and welcome.

It’s kind of a crazy thing to do, really.
Plenty of people make a point of saying so and I halfway agree.

But people run marathons for a million and one reasons — to get fit, prove a point, raise money, beat odds.
To pound good intentions into the planet, one footfall at a time.

My reasons were those and others.
Some of them, quite frankly, got lost in the shuffle.
(Which, incidentally, is what the last three miles of the race looked and felt like.)

In the end, I’m less concerned with why I ran and more concerned with being grateful.
To have been on the journey — mind games, missed sleep, Gu and all.
To have had the enduring companionship of my running partners, near and far.
To have made it to the starting line.
To have made it to the finish line.
To have looked all sorts of stuff in the face along the way.

I had a list in my zippered pocket of 26 people to think about during the race on Sunday.
And what was most amazing to me was how often I thought, as I looked at the next name, "She’s been running quite the marathon herself…" or "He survived a grueling race (or didn’t)…"

It made me feel not at all alone as I ran, but more importantly it stepped me outside of myself with the very visceral reminder that we are all on our own long journeys… often in the dark, frequently alone, with sore feet and head colds.

I’m moved beyond measure when I think of what each good person on this planet does in crawling out of bed in the morning and moving forward. Fueled by need or passion, order or desire.

Compared to all that, a marathon’s a jog in the park.

So, on that note, I’m signing off for the night, wishing each of you many miles of bright, crisp and welcome…

Namaste.

Today is Lincoln’s Birthday.

And Darwin’s.

It’s also, according to one of my astrologically-minded friends, the true dawning of the age of Aquarius.
Which seems like kind of a big deal.

But at my house, the day belongs to Small One, who’s turning eight.

When she was born, a whole bunch of Februarys ago, she was a sleepy baby.

Quiet.

Dreamy.

Serene.

That lasted for about two weeks.

Since then we’ve had a force of nature on our hands.

This is the child who was running at 10 months old and reading before we taught her.

This is the child who has knocked out teeth and suffered stitches.

This is the child whose perfect comic pitch brings us to our knees.

She is larger than life, quicker than a firecracker and electric-bright.

There’s no way to sum up the love we feel for our children.

Especially if we try to avoid the clichés.

So I won’t try.

Instead, suffice it to say that I’m grateful – every day – that this vivid and spirited child gets to live with us, here in our lives. Tucked in that bunkbed, right beneath her big sister. To my right at the dinner table. In my lap, still, when we read aloud at night.

Sometimes I cannot believe my good fortune.

My cup’s been running over since she arrived…

Happy Birthday, bunny….

The day after John Updike died, Terry Gross played a bunch of old interviews with him on Fresh Air.

They’re pretty charming.
You should give ’em a listen.

In one of them, they were discussing age, and how, each day, we’re older than we’ve ever been before.
And how, as writers, our job is to trailblaze and then report back to those younger than us about we find.

I think he meant: with the insights and wisdom gleaned through age.
But he was too modest to actually say that.

Anyway, I was thinking about how his statement applied — or didn’t — when you’re writing for children, be they 3 or 13.

When I’m feeling philosophical about my work, I say that I’m trying to be present to the perspective of children, and to articulate that perspective, and to, thus, value and validate it.

I think it may be the opposite of trailblazing and reporting back.

I think for me (at the risk of sounding wildly therapeutic), it’s more about trying to access the parts of my heart, mind and memory that are five or nine or so — that see the world the way I did at five or nine or so — and to love those parts up a little bit.

And, in so doing, loving up the hearts and minds of the five- or nine-year-olds who might read my books.

There are a whole heap of problems with this assessment.
For one thing, there is no single "perspective of children".
And for another, only a narcissist would think that any five-year-old today would want or need exactly what I wanted or needed at five.

Still.

I guess what I’m getting at is that sometimes, instead of trying to leverage the insights and wisdom that might be gleaned through age, maybe the best I can do is get out of my own way and fall back, awash, into the thrumming emotions of childhood.

What do you think?
 

I wasn’t gonna post about this because I want to get my grubby little paws on the grand prize but, aw heck, here you go:

The eternally tantalizing author and blogger extrordinaire Cynthia Leitich Smith is celebrating the debut of ETERNAL with a big ol’ giveaway!

You have until tonight at midnight to win books, t-shirts (designed by the equally eternally tantalizing Gene Brenek) and much, much more.

Make haste, people!!!

We have a neighbor who keeps his eye on the International Space Station.

Whenever it’s going to be visable from our neck of the woods, he gathers us all in the street and we watch as it hurtles through space at 17,000 miles an hour.

I would’ve really loved to be an astronaut.
Y’know, if I wasn’t what I am.

I suspect I’d have needed to possess more scientific leanings rather than poetic, though, if I were to train without gravity and fly a space shuttle and do space walks to repair electronic heat shields, etc. etc.

But there is a beautiful intersection of science and poetry.
At every level — from the cellular to the celestial.
And I feel it when I stand in the middle of my street, head craned up in wonder.

In keeping with this thought, a gift poem from the very clever and incredibly prolific J. Patrick Lewis.
Thank you, Mr. Lewis, for sharing this with Poetry Friday fans!

The Aged Sun

(This poem previously published in POEMS FOR TEACHING IN THE CONTENT AREAS, Scholastic Teaching Resources, 2007. All rights J. Patrick Lewis)